Writers Block…

Sleep, never-ending conscious,

thunder, spray dashing against

the windowpane, in the distance

railroad cars, clang, clang, clang.

 

Sleep, gulls screaming float through

the air, wild and free, diving into

the white frothy waves, living without

a care.

 

Sleep, ghost trampling upon the mind

and soul, brushing shoulders with

death they surge across time wanting

their story told.

 

Sleep, wanting the body to relax, flip

right, flip left; the noise of the world

springs from every nerve, wistfully let

there be silence, calmness come back,

come back, come back.

 

Sleep, brooding, daggers in the back, rise,

dress, the night will never be soothing;

those words in the head keep moving,

mind in a rage sitting silently staring at

the blank page.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

 

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The Moment…

 

Broken winds from the

slow hand of God lifts

waves ever moving

surging towards some

crystalline shore.

 

The evolution of change,

moving forward toward

the end, the scaling of old

skin, leaving only a shadow

of the imperfection of life.

 

New, newer, seasons never

turning back, blooming into

tomorrow, searching in a

colored cloud of being.

 

Enlightening the darkness,

alone, unafraid; stained by

time; it is time to be free, in

truth it is time to take root in

“the now”.   

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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The Firestorm…

 

In the western skies;

the sun delays leaving,

still radiant giving off a

feeling of peace.

The smoke from the fire

beyond the hills cast a

blushing haze toward the

clouds.

Shadows rise around the

barren knolls where no

birds sing, the air thick

black and menacing.

The sun gives false

serenity, as death befalls

the burning Forest.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

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The Affair… (Micropoetry)

A silhouette in the darkness walking away,

the other remains in the shadows believing

love exists.  The dread of parting hangs

heavily in the air.  A clandestine life finally

revealed!

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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Liberation…

Listen to the roar of the

thunder; in those days I

could meld with a storm,

before my heart turned to

stone.  I remember when

the blood in my veins

flowed with a fire, a fire…only

mine.

 

The last time that I said

goodbye, I felt like soaring to

the heavens, at last, me the

storm alone.  Lock the door,

light the candles pour the

wine; at last my life, my life…

only mine.

 

Your voice lingers in the

doorway, grateful I am that

you will not be back.  Outside

the light fades on a field of

wildflowers, the sun sets

behind the Pine’s, the world,

the world…only mine.

A moonbeam flows through

the window, pale, straight,

silent like my heart, that once

beat innocent.  It is time for a

golden celebration, a celebration…

only mine.

 

I will teach myself to live simple

and wise, to look to God, and

then I will come back.  With God,

the stone that is my heart will

soften, the fire will return to my

cold veins, and I will once again

savor all that is mine… only mine.

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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The Ticking Clock…

The weathervane bares to the moon

its raven wings, in predicted circles it

swings.  Fishing boats rise and fall

behind the jetty wall, the old man

mending his netting can hear the sea

call.

 

Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed

floating among the rocks, the fisherman’s

mind rushes like the tick of a clock.  Time

for one more catch before winter freezes

the shore; the nets have taken too long,

an overwhelming chore.

 

He sits remembering his world, its ghosts

that the ocean has taken, the young men

that God had forsaken.  In the beginning

the ancient winds brought the fish to earth,

they filled the sea to give birth.

 

Our ancestor’s footsteps imprinted upon the

pier, late in the night their sorrowful cries we

can hear.  Hurry, hurry the time is growing near,

soon your boats will freeze in their moorings,

the winter winds are what you should fear.

 

Look upward at the weathervane and its circular

world, around and around it whirls.  The daybreak

will quickly be gone and you will ask God…where

did I go wrong.   Ghostly snowflakes cover the

seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman

mind rushes like the tick of a clock.

 

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

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Words…

 

Words, words, words, black,

brown, red, words upon which

my tears have shed.  The living

word speaks truth, yet one must

die to have real proof.

 

Birth to death we are taught  the

Holy text, we will not truly live until

this sacrifice has been met.  The sky

will open the “Just” will fly away; the

“Wicked” given a second chance must

stay.

 

Words, are they truth or a means for

the pious to lie, and for the answer, are

you willing to die?  I want to believe, to

hope, to live life to its fullest here on

earth, and I choose to live until that final

rebirth.

 

To taste the lush berries down in the

blackberry thicket, to smell the wild rose

on the side of the hill, to find a love that

will not let my heart be still.  I want to lie

in a clover field watching bellowing clouds

float by, to gaze at a summer’s azure sky.

 

I want to read poems with my legs dangling

over the highest cliff, this…and only this will

give my earthly heart a lift.  To stare at forever

on the landscape below, as I pray that my time

in the here and now will travel ever so slow.

 

I want to dip my toes into a frothy sea, to feel the

salty wind upon my face and know that I am in the

right place.  Here on earth with my love by my side,

yes, oh yes, God can wait for a while.

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

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Benevolent Memories…

 

I have enough memories

from the past to last me

for the rest of my life.  My

bountiful memory will not

bury them from which they

were born.

 

A small country church, a

chorus of crows; the splashing

sounds of the brook running

through the Birch trees. The

wind caressing the colossal

row of Oaks in the field.

 

Death, a road away from the

weathered house of worship,

followed by black feathered

angels.  No longer will the water

beneath the Birch cool, nor will

the winds surrounding the Oaks

embrace flesh.

 

The rocker on the porch is stilled,

no hand waves goodbye.  In a

cobwebbed corner of the room,

the sun shines through a cloudy

window, as the image of tattered

curtains dance in a nearby mirror.

Childhood is dead.

 

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

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Infinite Hope…

 

What does one do during the bad days,

my mind that of an old woman, I would

clear my soul if I could; it is in old age

that we try to be kind.   In younger days,

we walk through life without worry and

blind.

Youth to old age, life passionate and wild,

yet within time the aged returns to the

days of a child.  I do not ask from my bed

of death to be free, I do ask that my God

let me die in dignity.

I ask that death allow me to find the

freedom that my life denied; that I am

strong when my family is at my side.

Spare me of the whisperings of a crowded

room, that there be ceremonious air and

not one of gloom.

I have lived without glory or fame; no one

will remember my name; no one knows

when I am bound for death, only God knows

when I will take my last breath.

While the world around me in silence lies,

move me outside so I can see sunshine once

more before I die.   Let it bathe me in the

wonder that I was born, across my face its

beauty spread, like the sun I ask only for

your smiles of love when I am dead.

I pray for no sickroom, no mortal strife, no

turmoil for a little breath, let it be a natural

passing, no struggling with death.  Let me go

composed, fearless, mind clear, willing to let

my spirit go somewhere else to wait for

everyone that to me is so dear.

 

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

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Love is Tiring…

Coalescing into an ineffable infinity of

serendipity evenings of peculiarity and

fiery.  There have been times that I

wanted to weep.

Weep, angered that I ever met you.  A

stone, yet I am patient as I gaze into your

eyes.  Never understanding completely,

your mind not pliable.

Oh, this despoiled flesh the path to

happiness, the consummation of my brain.

I think this thing called love is very tiring,

very, very, tiring as the tides of life flow

onward.

 

****

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

All eBooks at the address below:

Beyond the Voices

http://www.amazon.com/Ann-Johnson-Murphree/e/B00CGBLQZO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2?qid=1375763518&sr=8-2